The woman with the scar

I live just on the edge of the city center. We don’t have a garden, other than a concrete kubus where no sun ever shines. When we do want to soak up some sunlight we sit outside our window, on the sidewalk. We’ve put two benches right beneath them. It’s a lively neighbourhood and people walk past all the time. 

A lot of them use our benches too. Some take a breather after shopping, some eat lunch and others sit and chat with friends. Sometimes it’s elderly people who sit down to rest after doing groceries. 

My desk is right next to one of the windows. I work from home a lot, so I get to enjoy many different people and conversations that take place on the benches.

Today an older lady sat down in front of my window. It looked like she had a bit of fruit to eat on the go. She was hunched forward, like she was looking for something. But she sat completely still, apart from her picking up pieces of fruit with a disposable fork. 

It wasn’t a nice day. It had already rained that morning and the sky still only consisted of dark clouds. The bench must’ve been wet, but she sat there for a good twenty minutes anyway.

I wasn’t paying much attention, until I saw a white scar glistening on the back of her sun-tanned neck. Just above her necklace.

It was such an intimate moment, I didn’t know how to feel. That scar wasn’t meant to be seen by a total stranger. 

It was quite well hidden beneath her hair and clothes. But because she was hunched over to eat I could see it clearly as day. It was a pretty long scar, disappearing into her shirt. I could imagine it being an operation or an injury of sorts. Not something she’d just tell people. Maybe not even something she thought about every day, since it was on the back of her neck. 

I will probably never know anything else about her. Not her name, not her story, not even what her face looks like or what caused the wound. But I know her scar.